The Pretty Things are Going To Hell
by Reese Craven
Summary: Zombie David Bowie in leather pants.


**Disclaimer:** No, I don't own David Bowie. This is not written for profit. In fact, it is written for entertainment value only. I greatly respect David Bowie.

**Notes:** Along with the fact that this is not intended to offend anyone (David Bowie and Mick Jagger included), there are several things to keep in mind: (1) Some lines are written for the sole purpose of referencing David Bowie's songs (2) Jokes made by the Nostalgia Chick in her Labyrinth review were 1/3 the inspiration for this and (3) Bowie No Jutsu~! by ninjabridge was the other 2/3 of the inspiration. Please don't take this fic too seriously. That is why it is buried under the misc. file. ;)

**Links:** Remove spaces and parenthesis at beginning and end to view my inspiration. ^__^

**Nostalgia Chick Review** (http: //thatguywith theglasses. com/ videolinks /thedudette /nostalgia-chick/ 5570-labyrinth)

**Bowie No Jutsu~!** (http: //www .youtube .com/watch ?v=N17SGtrhQt Q&feature=sub)

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So there he was, David Mother Fucking Bowie, back from the dead in his tight leather pants. No one knew how he had come back and in some ways no one cared, all they knew was that the 1970's experimental glam-rock icon was back and he was in tight leather pants.

No one had seen the idol for years, ever since he died in the tragic car accident from driving under the influence of cocaine, alcohol, and road head. They say he was under a great deal of pressure and in an unhappy daze he happened to snap while driving over 55 on the Golden Gate Bridge. Coincidentally Mick Jagger happened to be swimming naked in the river below, there is no record of the two incidences being related.

However, it didn't matter anymore because he had returned to the world. His body was a mess of rotting flesh, skeleton, and judging by his bulge, he was definitely back. For the first couple of days everyone wanted to stay away, being trapped underground for a couple of years did tend to build up the decomposing scent. They also said that everyone was telling lies, that they should get real and stop telling tall tales about the zombie Bowie. But it only took a few days before everyone started accepting the rock star back into their lives again, recognizing him on the street with a smile and a cattle prod so as to avoid his snapping jaws. Sometimes a person would shock him, laughing as the smoking zombie backed off. He certainly was one hungry man.

There were times that people would get close enough to try to touch him, his rotting flesh greasy and slick showing that all the pretty things really were going to hell. However it was his bulge that stayed meticulously firm in his tight leather pants.

Oh yes his rocker cocker, the first thing anyone saw of the super star, had kept well in his long stay under ground. Maybe it had something to do with his gleaming leather pants, unwashed and ragged from their ages of use. Some were curious as to why the decomposing man had worn leather pants to his funeral, his only remaining piece of clothing clinging to him like a cellophane skin. Then people would remember it was David Bowie; they learned to stop asking and to say don't look down. It was a pretty special occasion when one of his older fans would greet him, sometimes hoping to get a touch of the mythical package that they thought of when they lost their virginity.

None the less David Bowie was back, stumbling along the roads and drifting across the lands of America. Whenever he passed through a town he was greeted to applause and praise, pictures of the newly revived rocker in both his pre and postmortem days. There were many hunks of steak which had his teeth marks by the end of his walk, his belly distended and exploding from his afternoon autograph session. Through the summers Bowie would decompose more, through the winters he would freeze and some traveling show would pick him up, taking him around on a tour of every city they could before the next thaw. In all it was a comfortable afterlife for the star, his tight leather pants holding him and his mythical package together as one.

Then one day a fan got too close and grabbed a little too hard, her long fingernails piercing the weak leather and broken flesh of the icon as if it were paper. In a flash Bowie had lost it all, the front of his pants and massive bulge being torn away by a greedy palm. For a moment he stopped, a look of confusion coming across his otherwise featureless face, and he looked down to his once proud manhood. Had he been alive it would have been a really big hurt, but as it was, he only looked confused. In a nearly silent puff, Bowie's rotting body seemed to vanish on the breeze. However, as the wind gained strength a whirlwind of dust rose from where he once stood; Bowie's body had become great tide of dust and the sun glinted off of it like so many stars.


End file.
